It’s been twenty years since my parents kicked me out at 18 for getting pregnant. My dad’s harsh words still haunt me: “If you leave with him, don’t come back!” My mom just watched silently, never defending me. Despite that, I built a life with Evan, my high school sweetheart, and our three kids. I don’t regret a thing.

Five years ago, my parents vanished on a hiking trip. No bodies, no clues—just abandoned backpacks on a cliff. The house was left to me, but I never sold it. It sat empty, a frozen reminder of my past.

On Christmas Eve, drawn by a strange pull, I drove to the old house—and found it decorated, alive with twinkling lights and holiday cheer, just like when I was a child. Inside, by the fireplace, sat a man I recognized: Max, the boy who lived next door. Homeless after being kicked out by his adoptive parents, he’d made the house his winter refuge.

Moved, I invited him home. With Evan and the kids, we’re planning to fix up the house and give Max a fresh start. That house isn’t just a memory anymore—it’s a new beginning.

What would you have done?